Keira-anne.com

Original Photo: goldbeere on Flickr

Days like today prove to me that I am not invincible.

Days like today find no comfort.

I walked home at lunch to take the dogs outside. The tears I fought so hard to blink back the entire way started to fall the minute that I opened the door. There is something about a canine’s love that is entirely unconditional and which radiates on some supernatural level. However, there are still hours left in the day so I had no choice but to “suck it up” and dry my eyes. Four o’clock will not come soon enough, and all I crave is hot tea and a warm blanket. The irony in that is that those simple comforts only serve as examples of how days like today ask me that for all the care for others I pour out, who is there to care for me at the end of the day?

My weekend has been divine. Yesterday I spent many hours sleeping in, then after finally deciding to shower and “pretty myself,” I took the boys on a two-hour trek to Yaletown for new shampoo and conditioner for me and a little sumpin’ for my favourite monkeys. Word to the wise: Barking Babies is a bad idea. A knock to the pocketbook and half an hour later, we walked out with honey/peanut butter dog biscuits, doggy granola bars, yogurt-dipped dog cookies and a new squeaky lamb for each of them. The toys weren’t intended, but when I picked them up off the shelf, Benji jumped up and grabbed it with his teeth. “Well, I guess I’m taking two of those…” I said to the girl. However, it’s rather precious because rather than playing with his lamb like Casey, Benji has a tendency to drag his lamb into the dog bed and wrap it with a blanket and proceed to cuddle.

The rest of the day was completely uneventful, as a power outage knocked out our electricity to well into the night, and it wasn’t until midnight that I finally ordered a pizza and threw on Season 1 of ‘Oz.’ In case you were wondering, it’s a ridiculously fantastic series produced by HBO that aired between 1997 and 2003.

Today was the day I’d been waiting a long time for, being that I got together with some great people for a great cause. The 2008 Bowl For Big Brothers Classic welcomed a pared-down version of ‘Team Blogger’ at Xcalibur Lanes in Surrey. The five of us on hand enjoyed two hours of 10-pin bowling in the dark. Despite the fact that I’m not the biggest fan of cosmic bowling, I’ll rarely pass up the opportunity to bowl. But why let me bore you by telling you about it? Here’s a few snaps of the action. The rest can be seen in my Flickr set.

A huge thank you to everyone that donated funds to Big Brothers of Vancouver on behalf of ‘Team Blogger.’ Unfortunately, only 50% of us were able to make it out but I know the whole team feels it’s an extremely worthy cause that supports many Greater Vancouver youth who so desperately need this program. All in, we raised over $1,000, all thanks to you!

Becky and I have spent all week looking forward to The Style Spy’s Fabulous Life fashion show. With designer names like Chulo Pony and Kensie, red carpet entertainment, swag bags and cocktails, we figured that there was no way we could go wrong with an event like this. Turns our we were wrong.

In light of tonight’s events, I present to you… “How Not To Hold A Fashion Show”

Photo: thestylespy07 on Flickr

Okay, so I’ve had a few cocktails and now I’m onto pinot noir. But buzzed or not, my sentiment remains the same. After waiting for an hour to check in with the RSVP table, the mess that was ‘Fabulous Life’ was anything but. We scoped the crowd to touch base with the adorable J-Sto (shoot me if you hate the nickname cuz it’s stickin’, baby), then ditched the scene and headed to Gastown to slip inside Boneta on West Cordova.

Roasted duck, sweet n’ savoury cocktails and cleavage talk made for a far better evening. The maître d’ seemed to remember me either from my birthday or from around the ‘hood, but either way, he wouldn’t let us ladies leave before downing a divine glass of complimentary champagne. Class act, that Boneta.

And so now I sit here, adorned in my little black dress and moccasin slippers, inches away from going nuts over the party raging next door. They call it a “housewarming” and I call it “horseshit.” Why party when you can opt for red wine in bed? They’re “down with OPP”; I’m under the down with the Bee and Casey.

Growing up, we had cats in the household. When I was very young, it was Tia. After she passed away we got Murphy. Murphy had a restless spirit and didn’t stick around for long. Never did we own dogs and, in truth, never did I hold much of an affinity for them. My Opa had dogs while I was growing up, and though I loved his last dog, Brady, cuddling and playing was never something I did.

By the time I was 20 years old, for no reason in particular, I was afraid of dogs. In retrospect, this was probably due to hearing about canine attacks in the news. I had convinced myself that if I got too close to any dog, the same would happen to me. That being said, I avoided all dogs at all costs.

Photo: This Year’s Love on Flickr

On Boxing Day, 2003 I was still living in the Comox Valley. Our home is in the rural countryside, and the homes on our street are few and far between. I decided to take a snow-filled walk in the silent afternoon, the only audible sound was the snow crunching under foot. As I rounded the corner, I saw a dog sitting in the middle of the road at the top of the street and less than 200 feet in front of me.

Determined to face my fear, I thought my best chance would be to walk a wide circle around the rather large dog, avoid eye contact and pray that he wouldn’t notice me. What a fool I was. I started inching closer…150 feet…100 feet…50 feet. Within the last few yards, the dog stood up and began a slow trot in my immediate direction. “Oh god, I’m toast.” I started to panic on the inside.

As the beast closed in, I began to realize just how large my soon-to-be opponent really was. There was nowhere I could run and nowhere I could hide. The dog was in front of me, up on its hind legs with its paws on my shoulders. I was no match for this animal’s strength and within a split second, found myself pushed backwards into a snowbank; the dog was now on top of me.

And then he started licking my face. All I could do was laugh.

To say this caught me off guard and entirely by surprise is an understatement. After a few moments, I picked myself up out of the snow to learn that I had a new walking companion. The dog, who I soon learned was called Rowdy, lived at a house just up the street and, despite his gargantuan frame, was only a year old. This was a canine who, when standing upright, was taller than me. I’m 5’9”.

And so, this became our routine and Rowdy became my buddy. Each day I’d come home from work to find Rowdy sitting on my doorstep waiting for his walk. Often on weekends, he’d sniff outside my bedroom window and let out a few little barks to beg me to come outside and play. Sadly, his owner spent no time with him and never walked him. This escalated to the point where the man asked me if I’d take over walking duties because he didn’t have the time (or the desire, I expect). Heartbroken at the thought, there was no way I could neglect the task.

He was big and furry and smelly and muddy but I loved him. Above all else, he was entirely loyal and loved me back equally. It was less than half a year later that I moved back to Vancouver. Upon my return visits home, I’d often check for Rowdy but it wasn’t long before he disappeared altogether. I like to think he ran away and found a farm that really wanted him.

Since that time in my life, nearly five years ago, I have grown to develop an immense love for all dogs. Last year, as many of you know, our family finally adopted a new dog – our first since Brady was put down in 2001. Charley has quickly grown to be an integral part of our family and daily life. She’s perfect with a big fluffy beard, naturally precocious and entirely loving. Charley brought new life to our family’s home.

And today, this Friday the 14th, I find myself sitting in my office and entirely restless for the end of the day. As I so often do several times each year, I am taking care of my best friend’s dogs. But in truth, it’s no task at all. There are few things that feel better than walking through the front door after a day at work to find their tiny paws resting on my thighs, aching to be picked up and cuddled. In fact, the only thing that makes me feel more content is waking in the morning to find Casey coiled up in the nook of my arm and Benji playfully pawing at his own face while lying on my chest in an adorable attempt to wake me.

How anyone couldn’t - or wouldn’t – be a dog lover is completely beyond me.

I miss records. My Opa had countless classic 45s and my dad had an extensive collection of everything from Cream to the Rolling Stones to Foreigner. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Houses of the Holy’ was often a joke in our house, and my parents would point out that the cover was a “bunch of Keiras” climbing the steps. This was probably due to the fact that my post-bath childhood behaviour included relishing warming my naked butt by our fireplace. Too much information? Perhaps. Moving on…

My parents’ music was my music. My first-ever record was Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born In the U.S.A.’ – complete with an autograph (which, in retrospect, looked suspiciously like my mom’s handwriting). I adored Bryan Adams at the age of 4 and had a full-blown appreciation for U2 by the time ‘The Joshua Tree’ was released in 1987. When I wasn’t plugged into our gigantic stereo with headphones big enough to make my little head wobble, I was spending Saturdays in my aunt’s car listening to tunes of the 1950s on our weekly shopping adventures.

Naturally, like every other red-blooded girl on the planet, I swooned over New Kids On the Block the first time I heard “Hangin’ Tough.” It was about this time that I discovered MuchMusic (now referred to as ‘Much’ by you younger folk). This opened up a whole new world of listening pleasures. The likes of VJs such as Steve Anthony brought Duran Duran, Björk, Pearl Jam, Nirvana and Depeche Mode into my living room on a daily basis. Then were the days that MuchMusic, believe it or not, actually played music videos – sometimes for hours at a time! Shocked?

As my year of high school graduation drew nearer, MuchMusic’s format changed and slowly incorporated more and more television shows into daily scheduling. I often wanted to tear my hair out everytime I heard the theme song to ‘The Monkees’ start up. Soon after, the so-called Nation’s Music Station slashed their name to simply ‘Much,’ and so I changed the channel. 1998 was the last year I watched with any sort of regularity. Remember this logo?

Today, when I listen to the radio, I’ve got the dial set to easy listening. My station of choice these days is Clear FM. In fact, it’s currently playing in my ears as I write. “One Of These Nights” by the Eagles is spinning this afternoon. Being that I haven’t recently watched any sort of music on television, nor have I tuned into any top 40 radio stations, it’s been close to a decade since I was actively discovering new music. In fact, the rare occasions on which I do discover a new artist are purely by accident or by very specific recommendation of friends. Even still, I hesitate.

While I can point to a few acts I’ve discovered since the demise of MuchMusic, such as Rilo Kiley, Hanson and Kanye West, even still most of these artists have been making music for close to a decade (if not more). Yes, it’s been more than 10 years since the first time you heard “MmmBop.” The truth is, I find that today’s new music is supremely disappointing. The craft of songwriting has disappeared in favour of marketing to the masses. Forgive my generalization, but it seems that the majority of those 25 and under most likely don’t even realize that they don’t choose who they like to listen to – radio stations and music executives decide that for them. Don’t believe me?

How many groups are currently putting out records whose band features four or more 20-somethings in skinny jeans, horizontal striped t-shirts and shaggy haircuts that cover one eye? At the very least, they all have one thing in common:

Oh, and let’s not forget The Pussycat Dolls.

Coincidence? Well, I suppose it would be unfair to say that “The…” equals trite tunes. After all, then we’d have to lump in The Beatles, The Who, The Clash, The Cure and The Doors to name a few. And besides, if “The…” was the only prerequisite, I’d have to leave out the contrived likes of Arcade Fire, Hedley, My Chemical Romance or Gym Class Heroes. Who comes up with these ultra hip names anyways?

But I digress.

Perhaps my opinion could be considered a little biased. Were you to play any of these newer artists for me, I most likely couldn’t tell one from the other. Isn’t that saying something? What I loved most about music as a little girl, and what I still love most about music, is that when it’s good, it ignites something inside of me. It triggers a thought, a memory or a feeling. What’s the point in music that doesn’t inspire?

I am well aware of the fact that the majority of those reading have a thing or two to say about a thing or two I’ve said. I’m not an authority on what’s considered good music. After all, my collection of albums contains more than a couple Hanson CDs tucked in between all my Duran Duran discs. I look forward to the day on which I can play LPs for my own children…to pull out an actual record, drop the needle to it and hope that they too drift away between cracks, sizzles and pops.

I awoke yesterday feeling entirely un-rested. I’m not sure if it was the club kids from the Blarney Stone and their drunken screeches at all hours of the night or the bad dreams that kept waking me at regular intervals. Clouds hung over Vancouver for the entirety of Sunday and that suited me just fine. I was doing nothing but lamenting my downward feelings; sunshine would’ve seemed condescending. Despite the hazy cover of the day, I knew there were two puppies who needed to get outside, stretch their tiny legs and play. Around 2:30 p.m., Benji, Casey and I started the short trek to Crab Park at the head of Main Street.

I love Crab Park. I love that the boys can run around and play without leashes. Benji loves rolling around and giving his back some great scratches in the grass, whereas Casey could play fetch with his green rubber bone for hours on end if I’d let him. I also love Crab Park because I unfailingly meet interesting people there.

Original Photo: VanKeefer on Flickr

Yesterday I met a man named Miguel*. He was sitting on a bench by himself as I started to throw Casey’s rubber bone, so I looked over, smiled and said hello. This was all the encouragement he needed to stand up and come and talk with me. And so, as I watched the boys play in a foot of mud, Miguel and I talked.

He left El Salvador in the late 1970s, before the Civil War, and joined the army against his father’s wishes. The oldest boy of 10 children, Miguel’s father had hoped he’d stay and work on the farm. Instead, Miguel found himself in Canada in 1984 after a military stint overseas, and was soon married and living in Montréal. There he worked as a long-haul truck driver, often spending much time away from home. His marriage dissolved in 1999 after finding out from a neighbour that his wife was cheating on him while Miguel criss-crossed Canada.

It was then that Miguel found himself in Vancouver. Now in his late 50s, here he works at a minimum wage job, has no family in Vancouver and is not welcome to move back to El Salvador. He told me he was what’s known as the “black sheep” of his family. Miguel is an alcoholic. He now feeds himself with food stamps and lives in one of the Downtown Eastside’s hotels that is slated to close in order to make way for condos. It was about twenty minutes into our conversation that he brought out his handkerchief to dry his brimming eyes. He lives a life void of hope.

Original Photo: milder60 on Flickr

Though Miguel and I come from different backgrounds, we both could agree that Vancouver is a hard place to live at the best of times. This is a city in which there is no love - no real love. So many people are only out for themselves, in competition with everyone including their own selves. It’s harder still for those that do nothing but give, only to have more taken.

I told Miguel I hoped to be back next weekend to let the dogs play again. He told me he hoped we’d talk again. Miguel visits Crab Park every single day, no matter the weather. It brings him peace and rest, even if only for a few minutes. I am grateful for people like Miguel. Their strength and resilience has the power to bring us back to earth and put our own “problems” into perspective with the upturn of a smile.

* Name has been changed to protect privacy.

It’s not often that women get entire nights to themselves these days it seems. A couple weeks ago, when I revealed to Becky and Amy that I’d be taking care of two perfect pooches for a few weeks, we all decided that the opportunity couldn’t be better. After the week each of the three of us had, the timing couldn’t be more spot-on. The girls game over armed with vodka, popcorn, “The Way We Were” with Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford on DVD, pajamas, mud mask, CDs, and a third adorable doggie named “Peanut.” I supplied the place, the beer and the “Sex and the City” trivia game.

The night ensued…

Three ladies + three dogs + one Photobooth = Tons Of Fun!

Casey loves his soccer ball, despite the fact that it’s twice the size of his head. I am pretty sure he’ll be trying out for the Arsenal team for their next season.

Becky shakes it…Becky shakes it real good.

The questions and the concept were far too easy, so instead we took turns answering questions while competing against each other. Last person to answer the question takes a drink.

Amy used an old-fashioned popcorn popper and made a big pot of buttery dreams.

This afternoon, Becky and I hit up H&M en route to Ikea. Flip flops…lots of glorious flip flops.

Ikea’s started charging a nickel for each plastic bag you use and then donating the proceeds to Trees Canada. You can, of course, buy one of their nifty reusable bags for $1.

Because Tony says so. That’s why we do the things we do. He wanted lots of pictures, so he got a few (in addition to this little saucepot).

And now, after an extremely long - but extremely fun - last 24 hours, it’s time to tuck myself into bed with Benji, Casey and “The Devil and Daniel Johnston.”

Each weekday morning, making my way to Starbucks for a grande Americano is part of my routine. I always go to the same location because they know me by name, face and drink. A few years back, Starbucks launched “The Way I See It;” quotes from people famous (and not) are printed on the side of each and every cup. What’s most intriguing is that nine times out of 10, I get the same cup. It almost never fails. This has gone on for months now. I think Starbucks is trying to tell me something.

Photo: powerbooktrance on Flickr

“In a world where celebrity equals talent, and where make-believe is called reality, it is most important to have real love, truth and stability in your life.” – Bernie Brillstein, Film and Television Producer

There it is in black and white. The latter part of what Mr. Brillstein shared is, in my opinion, the meat of what he said. When taking a moment to consider what truly matters in these short lives we live, the conclusions we reach include the things we can’t touch or breathe in, taste or smell. And though we can’t see love, truth or stability, when they’re present, they’re felt stronger than any physical sensation.

Real Love

I am not sure there is a word in which the meaning is watered-down, often blasé and altogether convoluted as love. We “love” our spouses and we “love” our morning coffees. We “love” our family and friends and we “love” the new stilettos sitting in the closet. Too often, love is now an expression of currently-felt emotion rather than a constant in one’s life.

Real love is not an emotion or a way in which we feel about someone or something. Real love should, ideally, be a rock-solid principle on which we base our lives. Real love should be endless, relentless, unchanging and perpetual. Real love should not be based on feeling happy or feeling sad. Real love is a choice, often a hard one to make. Real love sometimes means being the bigger person; sometimes it means eating a tremendous slice of humble pie.

Truth

As my age inches closer and closer to 30 (which, true, I know is still considered “young”), I am reminded by the landmark ages to follow: 40, 50, 60 and beyond. What I am most grateful for is the experience that comes with age. The adage that “the older you get, the wiser you are” can ring true if you allow it to. One thing that I have learned for certain is that there are few people in life whom you can whole-heartedly trust. To trust is to place your faith, confidence and reliance in someone.

And while no matter who you trust, no one can guarantee that they won’t let you down at one point or another. It is intention and integrity that matter most in this regard. In all actuality, aside from my mom, aunt and brother (who mean more to me than they can fathom), the number of people in my life that I trust beyond a shadow of a doubt is minute. However, having even only one person in your life that you can trust makes you very fortunate indeed.

Stability

Stability and consistency are two separate concepts. Most people prefer an existence filled with spontaneity and surprises, void of routine. Then there are those, like myself, who prefer consistency and routine. Everyone, however, needs stability.

Life is full of surprises, both positive and negative. Much of what we experience is beyond our control and sometimes even defies our understanding. Events and circumstances arise that can cause both joy and pain in the same breath. It’s the stability of love and support that gives us the strength we ultimately require to handle the curveballs our days throw.

No man or woman is infallible. Not one of us is entirely independent and autonomously strong. And really, why would anyone desire to experience life without those rare souls in our lives – our rocks – to share it with?

Final Thoughts

Sometimes I struggle in that friendships of the past which were once flourishing in their circumstances are no longer in the same place; however, I don’t struggle in the way you might imagine. The ability to reconcile the reality of fact is a gift. Life changes, situations evolve, people move, friends get married. As we move through our days, we meet new friends and lose touch with old ones. The love I have for friends in which I was hugely invested in years ago hasn’t changed in the slightest. Though time spent with them is now incredibly minimal, the ways in which I love and cherish them is not. Unfortunately, some people have a much harder time letting go of what once was and living in today. Truth be told, this causes me a certain level of guilt when it really shouldn’t. It’s what happens in the ebbs and flows of life.

I am blessed in more ways than I tend to realize. Ten years ago, my circle was vast. Today, my circle is small and within my immediate space. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I have three incredible family members. I have a dog whose loving gaze and licky tongue chases away the blues. I have a best friend who accepts me for who I am: the good, the bad and the hideously ugly skeletons. I have a handful of girlfriends who kick my ass when I need it and lend me their ears and shoulders when I need them. These people show me integrity, strength, love, humility and honesty. These are crucial when you live in a city fueled by narcissism, materialism, parties, designer labels and a dog-eat-dog mentality.

Real love, truth and stability. What more does anyone really need?

I won’t even tell you which one was me - the answer is obvious.

I started choosing my own outfits in kindergarten. My favourite pairing, as I can recall, was a top with big, pastel florals matched with a pair of very light washed overalls. I always felt my best in that particular clothing.

The fashion in my journey through childhood, adolescence, my late teens and even my early 20s was dominated by what I thought looked great at the time. There was the expected neon period, the time when I simply had to have Hammer pants preceding the to-die-for upside-down triangle branding on the butt of Guess jeans that everyone was sporting in seventh grade. I went through a brief period in the summer of 1996 in which I thought perhaps I’d go “punk.” The purple hair and British-inspired monstrosities didn’t last long.

By the time I reached my early 20s, I thought I knew what I liked to wear and what I felt comfortable in. Looking back, I was clueless even then. In pondering my dressing disasters, two particulars stick out like sore thimbles: 1) I had no idea what a proper fit looked like; and 2) Accessories? What?

Photo: Fashion In Liverpool

Then came the turning point. Then came 25. How I came to realize that something about my appearance was beyond awkward, I couldn’t say. But it was at that point something near-magical happened: I discovered shoes; I discovered handbags; I discovered the marvel in rotating jewelry; and I discovered how to buy clothes that fit.

Over the past three years, I’ve taken the basics of outer beauty and dressing one’s self and began to build with those tools. Now my hall closet is stocked with boots, stilettos, Keds, ballet flats, and pin-up girl kitten heels. The bulging jewelry box on my nightstand is stuffed with hoops, studs, feathers, chains, pendants, bracelets and rings. And my walk-in closet (yes, my walk-in closet) is adorned in denim and dress pants and skirts and sweaters and sweater vests and long tees and short tees and lingerie and ridiculously sexy dresses and matching bra-and-pantry sets. I count my blessings.

Photo: FashionInsanity

Very recently I discovered the bible, the bible being Vogue magazine. Never before have I found so much inspiration between pages. Cosmopolitan is yesterday’s news. I mean, really…how many different ways are there to give a really “stellar” blow job?

A girlfriend argued the other day that reading Vogue is pointless because she “just wants everything” she sees in the ads and the articles, and then feels inadequate when she doesn’t own it all. Au contraire, mon ami. It depends on how you look at it.

Being one who is still an admitted grasshopper when it comes to piecing together a smart look, inspiration is my reason for reading and inspiration is the entire reason Vogue was founded over a century ago in 1892. Though it would be lovely indeed, I will never be the girl with an assortment of Gucci bags, poppy-printed Prada dresses for spring, eccentric Dolce and Gabbana gowns or a new pair of Christian Louboutin heels for each day of the week. The few that can afford such pieces have a luxury that ever fewer will ever taste. For the rest of us, those pieces were designed to inspire.

Perhaps some may see this post as shallow and a pointless waste of writing time. However, I doubt there are many reading this that don’t understand the feeling of those rare, once-in-a-blue moon days where you step out the front door and feel more on your game than usual, and thus chalk it up to “looking good.” It’s not selfish or the aforementioned shallow to want to look fantastic. Self confidence doesn’t come easy even at the best of times, so sometimes there are days where a fabulous pair of shoes is the only first aid kit that will do.